Ning Zhuo and Shan Feibai were far too striking and eye-catching. Within mere seconds, they became the most noticed presence in the entire place.
As soon as these two were brought in, almost everyone present immediately understood:
—Most likely, they were “supplies,” deliberately sent in for certain people to “taste.”
As for whether they could leave intact after a few months, that depended on how “durable” they were and how much luck they had.
As for whose “supplies” they were, it was clear from who had the most pressing “needs.”
The people here fully enjoyed the conveniences brought by status and resources, and naturally, they were happy to abide by the various “rules of the game” that came with that status.
What belonged to whom was simply that—nobody else’s business.
Don’t touch what you can’t afford to mess with.
The bustling crowd fell silent for a long time, watching as Ning Zhuo and Shan Feibai were led to their cell. Only then did someone snap out of it, gritting their teeth and muttering, “Damn, they’re really something else.”
Waiting for the two was a double cell with bunk beds, equipped with a standard double desk, two cushioned stools, and an old-fashioned TV embedded in the wall two meters up.
The decor here wasn’t any more luxurious than the other cells—no call bells, aromatherapy machines, or coffee makers—but at least the upper bunk had plenty of space, and there was a separate wet-and-dry bathroom.
Realizing he wouldn’t have to sleep next to a toilet, Shan Feibai’s mood improved significantly. He sat on the edge of the lower bunk, swinging his long legs, holding the remote, and trying to figure out if the wall-mounted TV could pick up a signal.
Ning Zhuo tossed his bedding at him: “Get up there.”
Shan Feibai puffed out his cheeks, grabbed the upper bunk’s railing, and with a swift pull, hoisted himself up. His long, shapely legs dangled down, swinging leisurely, making Ning Zhuo’s fingers itch with the urge to yank him down and send him sprawling.
But that was too childish, so he didn’t.
After making his own bed, Ning Zhuo lay down, closing his eyes to rest.
Shan Feibai peeked down: “Ning-ge, got any plans?”
Ning Zhuo, stone-faced: “None.”
Shan Feibai snapped his fingers cheerfully: “Got it—play it by ear. My favorite.”
Ning Zhuo didn’t respond, but inwardly, he acknowledged that Shan Feibai was quite skilled in this regard.
Shan Feibai asked earnestly, “Shouldn’t a prison have full surveillance coverage, no blind spots?”
Ning Zhuo: “Other places, sure. Here?”
He pressed his lips together and let out a soft scoff.
Shan Feibai got it instantly.
These people, who were supposed to be serving punishment, were instead indulging in debauchery and pleasure in this prison, but it had to be done in secret, away from prying eyes.
If surveillance caught it and someone with ulterior motives used it for blackmail or exposure, things could get messy.
Ning Zhuo added coolly, “They’re not here to be punished. They just went too far, and the people covering for them couldn’t handle the fallout, so they picked this ‘resort’ to lay low. Splash a bucket of water anywhere here, and eight out of ten people you hit probably deserve worse.”
At that, Ning Zhuo fell silent, and Shan Feibai didn’t press further.
Ning Zhuo listened to the entertainment news blaring from the room’s TV, his mind brewing with thoughts, his eyes fixed on Shan Feibai’s right leg swinging like a pendulum.
…He was starting to think letting Shan Feibai take the top bunk was a mistake.
Thankfully, the exposed ankle had a pleasing enough curve, which eased his irritation somewhat.
Dinner time came quickly.
The high-security prison block didn’t require crowding into a communal cafeteria to fight over slop-like food. Meals were delivered directly, quite convenient.
Of course, the delivery order prioritized the established “VIPs,” while newcomers like Ning Zhuo, with unclear backgrounds, were served last.
Ning Zhuo pretended to wait for his meal, opening the cell door to “get some air” while discreetly surveying the layout.
As expected, functional surveillance here was zero—only a few dummy cameras were haphazardly placed in corners.
If you looked at the high-security block through the surveillance feed, the screens would show a fortress-like defense, with every inmate in gray prison garb, obediently locked in their cells, serving their sentences—a computer-generated “ideal prison.”
In reality, the block had a high, expansive ceiling, three stories tall, spanning over 6,000 square meters.
Each cell was separated by advanced thermal and soundproofing layers, ensuring that no matter how much revelry happened inside, it wouldn’t disturb others. The doors lacked peepholes, so no third pair of eyes could pry.
In the evening, the public area featured a pole dancer performing for the diners’ entertainment.
Through the massive floor-to-ceiling windows, one could catch glimpses of a medicinal hot spring.
A young man with cat ears, shirtless, his back glistening with water, was massaging a man lounging in the hot spring, sipping warm rice wine.
There was barely a trace of prison guards.
Only two guards stood like javelins at the passageway, wearing gentle, virtuous smiles, seemingly eager to leave a good impression on the block’s “VIPs.”
Within Ning Zhuo’s line of sight, the public area had at least five mercenaries, each one rugged and fierce-looking, the most “criminal” bunch in the VIP block.
But they were relaxed. While their employers indulged, they lounged about, some sitting, some standing, others gambling in groups.
Their pay was easy money—an insurance policy for their employers, with a 99% chance it’d never be needed, just for peace of mind.
After all, the security system of Yatebo District’s First Prison, like the “White Shield” system, was personally designed by Titan Corporation’s CTO, Honbu Ryo, under Ruiteng Corporation.
That was the first layer of assurance.
The second was the layers of stationed guards.
Only then came the mercenaries.
With the pressure distributed like this, their job was light, and they often reaped the benefits that fell from their employers’ tables, living so comfortably they forgot to leave.
When a mercenary disappeared for a while and returned, fattened up, everyone knew: they’d been “enjoying” prison life with someone.
But this place was indeed secure.
So far, the escape rate at Yatebo District’s First Prison was zero, making it arguably the safest place in all of Silver Hammer City.
While Ning Zhuo, with his cold expression, surveyed the area as if in a daze, Honbu Takeshi returned.
Having sung all day, Honbu Takeshi reeked faintly of alcohol, his face pale and puffy, flanked by a group of mercenaries as he entered through a side door.
As he walked in, the pole dancer had just shed her last piece of clothing, revealing swathes of snowy skin.
Honbu Takeshi’s gaze instinctively flicked toward her for a moment before locking onto Ning Zhuo, who was leaning against the doorframe.
Jin Hu, trailing behind Honbu Takeshi, stepped inside and froze when he saw Ning Zhuo.
His jaw clenched, and his entire body tingled with a mix of rage and the muscle memory of a past beating.
Ning Zhuo’s gaze lingered on Honbu Takeshi’s face for half a second before shifting to Jin Hu.
He raised an eyebrow, then smiled faintly, walking toward them step by step.
Jin Hu’s face burned, his massive fists creaking as he clenched them.
Meanwhile, Honbu Takeshi was half-melted by Ning Zhuo’s smile.
Ning Zhuo greeted Jin Hu: “Doing pretty well, huh?”
Jin Hu’s face twisted with fury.
In Jin Hu’s mind, the next time he saw Ning Zhuo, they’d have to settle the score once and for all.
Ning Zhuo was already twenty-eight, riddled with injuries, likely past his prime as a fighter.
Among the men Jin Hu had brought, there was a young champion who’d dominated several rounds in underground cage fights.
But in front of his employer, Jin Hu couldn’t act on his personal grudge. He could only swallow his anger, sneering sarcastically, “Well, well, isn’t this Ning, the second-in-command of ‘Haina’? How’d you end up slumming it here?”
Ning Zhuo didn’t seem inclined to fight either. “Just making a living, same as anyone.”
His vague response left Jin Hu itching to fire back, but then his employer, Honbu Takeshi, spoke up, all refined and polite. “What’s your name?”
Jin Hu instinctively flinched, then mentally cheered.
From what he knew of Ning Zhuo, the man would never answer straight. If things escalated, Ning Zhuo might even slap Honbu Takeshi across the face.
And if Ning Zhuo offended Honbu Takeshi, Jin Hu would have every reason to make a move.
But reality veered far from Jin Hu’s expectations.
Ning Zhuo glanced at Honbu Takeshi, gave a curt, polite nod, and said in a cool, detached tone, “Ning Zhuo.”
He had no intention of lingering for a long chat. After greeting the familiar face, he turned to leave.
Before going, he shot another look at Honbu Takeshi.
Even Jin Hu had to admit, the way Ning Zhuo glanced from the corner of his eye was wild and intriguing.
But the moment Ning Zhuo turned, he saw Shan Feibai standing quietly by the door, watching him.
Unsettled by the look in Shan Feibai’s eyes, Ning Zhuo strode over, pressed a hand to Shan Feibai’s forehead, and shoved him back into the cell. “What are you staring at? You blind or something?”
The words sounded like a jab at Shan Feibai, but since Honbu Takeshi was also staring intently at Ning Zhuo, he was indirectly included in the scolding.
Of course, Honbu Takeshi didn’t take it as an insult.
Turning to the stunned Jin Hu, he said approvingly, “Ning Zhuo, and the guy with him—both are impressive.”
Jin Hu was so shocked he barely registered Honbu Takeshi’s hint. “…”
He’d heard from his men that Ning Zhuo had come to the prison with Shan Feibai.
But seeing them together in person was a jolt he hadn’t expected.
…How the hell did those two end up together?!
While Jin Hu, sidelined by his lack of freedom, missed the hottest gossip among underground mercenaries, Ning Zhuo and Shan Feibai were eating dinner side by side.
The food was decent, but Ning Zhuo wasn’t enjoying it.
He couldn’t shake the feeling that Shan Feibai’s earlier gaze had been layered with something complex—complex enough to spark a fleeting pang of guilt in him.
He couldn’t figure out why Shan Feibai had looked at him like that.
…It was eerily similar to the look of a small, abandoned animal, like when Ning Zhuo was a kid and learned he was being sent back home.
Ning Zhuo was hyper-aware of even the slightest shift in his emotions, as they could cloud his judgment.
His tone remained sharp. “What were you staring at earlier?”
Shan Feibai, seemingly nursing his own grudge, huffed. “I know who that was.”
“Who?”
Shan Feibai: “Jin Hu. Your old rival, Ning-ge.”
As he spoke, Shan Feibai’s eyelashes drooped, his expression tinged with unmistakable melancholy.
In his entire life, Shan Feibai’s greatest regret was failing to be someone’s “one and only.”
He wasn’t his mother’s only.
She cared more about her own broken heart and body.
It wasn’t wrong, but her resolute departure proved he wasn’t worth living for.
His opportunistic father certainly didn’t see him as his only.
As for his timid stepmother and stepbrother, Shan Feibai had no interest in being their one and only.
Finally, he met Ning Zhuo. But based on his experience and cunning, Shan Feibai hadn’t fully revealed his true situation.
People’s hearts were unpredictable.
He couldn’t be sure if Ning Zhuo would double-cross him, or if, once he came clean about his identity, a “rescue” might turn into another kidnapping.
Later, when he wanted to tell the truth, he’d already woven too deep a web of lies to backtrack.
Shan Feibai knew his grandmother had passed away a year ago, and his father, busy taking over her business, wouldn’t come for him soon—but he would eventually.
So, every day since their cliffside talk had been stolen time.
It was the first time Shan Feibai, like a child, naively hoped Ning Zhuo might care enough to keep him, to not send him back to that family.
…After all, Ning-ge was just that cool.
But stolen time passed quickly.
His faint hope didn’t pan out.
His lies ultimately led to a falling-out with Ning Zhuo.
Shan Feibai knew, given Ning Zhuo’s personality, there was no way he’d trust him again after this.
He also knew he could never be Ning Zhuo’s “one and only.”
But was it really impossible?
—If he couldn’t be the only friend, he could still be the only enemy.
This thought took root in Shan Feibai’s heart, sprouting and growing into a towering, leafy tree.
But he was still growing too slowly.
…Ning-ge had other enemies before him.
Though that brief rivalry ended with Jin Hu’s total defeat, it still left a tiny thorn in Shan Feibai’s heart.
He cared so much it made him grind his teeth.
Hearing Shan Feibai’s words, Ning Zhuo, chopsticks in hand, rolled his striking jade-green eyes. “Oh, finally remembered.”
He picked up a piece of food. “I recognized his face but forgot his name. Thanks for the reminder.”
Shan Feibai blinked, stunned.
The next moment, a small burst of joy bloomed in his heart.
“Don’t change the subject,” Ning Zhuo said, not wanting to dwell on it. “I’ve got something to tell you.”
Shan Feibai’s mood quickly shifted from cloudy to sunny, and he asked cheerfully, “What’s that?”
Ning Zhuo replied, “…The reason we’re here to kill Honbu Takeshi.”
